


Gently With The Lad

by CoffeeMinx



Category: Inspector George Gently
Genre: Fakeout Makeout, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, I Just Want John Bacchus To Be Happy, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rare Pairings, Surprisingly Canon Compliant, Touch-Starved, Undercover As Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-03 04:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15811845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeMinx/pseuds/CoffeeMinx
Summary: This fic was inspired by that one scene inPeace And Love(Season 3 Episode 2 in the USA), although it draws on a background of canon across seasons.I have tried to be as canon-compliant as possible (given the circumstances), although I have pretended Leigh Anne doesn’t exist.Just basically wanted to write this trope with them. I want John Bacchus to have nice things. I’d apologize, but we already know I’m trash.Oh, two things:1)  John's hair is the long length that gets in his eyes as seen inGently Between the Lines(Season 6 Episode 1). In case you were wondering.2)  This story is not set in any particular season--other than it's before Season 8.





	Gently With The Lad

“This is a teapot’s place!” John hissed in alarm. Suddenly unable to decide how to stand or where to put himself, he spun in a stiff-legged circle until Gently’s firm grip on his shoulder stopped him. 

Gently was grinning—a huge smile, practically laughing at him. It dawned on John that his guv had known all along what sort of club the Seagull was. 

“We’re not Vice,” Gently was saying.

“What does that matter? The things they do.... It’s flagrantly illegal, what they get up to!” 

Arrival of the gin and tonics Gently had ordered suspended conversation—and gave John a moment to realize what signals Gently had sent by dominantly countermanding John’s request for a pint. 

He was the girl. 

Gently was the bloke and he was the girl. Now they all thought... they were picturing.... 

Nerves jangling, John waited for the barman to withdraw before continuing to quietly sputter, “Illegal… Having… every which way… Guv, you know what they get up to!”

Gently swiveled to look at him full on, a mild expression on his face. “Think a lot about what they get up to, do you John?”

John blushed. “No. No, I don’t.” Gently wasn’t saying anything, so John filled the silence by adding, “Of course not. No.”

“So you have no objection to remaining here and finishing your gin and tonic?”

He didn’t like gin and tonic, but John sighed and dutifully, if a bit sullenly, answered, “Right, guv.”

“Good. Settle in. Our suspect should be along soon.” 

Gently sat at the bar with the air of a man who could be at home anywhere. John perched on a barstool, long legs drawn up, shoulders hunched forward. 

He grasped the gin and tonic glass, but didn’t pick it up. He was fairly certain his hand would shake if he did. 

“Act natural,” Gently instructed impatiently, under his breath.

 _Act natural?_ John’s heart was panicking and he didn’t know why. He couldn’t think. A hazy lightheadedness filled his skull where his brain used to be. The only bits of his body actually working—and they were working overtime—were his sweat glands. He wiped his palms on his trousers. 

He’d never felt so exposed. Was everyone staring at him? What where they thinking? That posh bloke who’d complimented Gently on pulling him. _Pulling him! Like he was a bird!_ What was _he_ thinking right now? What had he seen when he looked in John’s eyes that made him think John was up for... _that_?

Head bowed, long forelock in his face, John snuck a glance back, in the direction the man had gone. He sat across the room, chatting up another Seagull member, but he’d maintained a casual interest in watching the bar, and when their gaze met, John saw lust beckoning from the other bloke’s eyes and snaking smile.

Whipping his attention back to the marbled surface in front of him, John grabbed his glass and drank. 

Then with the suddenness of a North Sea squall, a technicolor vision of George Gently and that bloke fighting each other for possession of him— _Saint George and the Dragon_ —flashed before his mind’s eye and sent an intense throb of desire crackling through his veins. 

John forgot how to swallow and breathed his gin. 

“You alright?” 

Coughing, John nodded and put the glass down on the bar with a loud _clack_. 

_Bloody hell!_ Where had that come from? He wasn’t one of those… _those_ …. He couldn’t be. His father had beaten the softness out of him. For his own good.

Gently was looking at him, eyes hard. Unreadable. Thinking again, analyzing, uncovering all John’s weak spots, per usual. He had to get out of here.

“Mebbies I’ll just… I’ll just duck out the back.” Head already down, John slid from his barstool but Gently grabbed his arm, halting him before he’d taken a step.

The Seagull’s barman was sauntering over. “Here’s her, off like a linty down the vennel before she even gets to the good part.” His tone was teasing, yet kind. “No need to fear, ducks, we’re all friends here. Same again?”

Gently nodded. After the barman left, he spoke soft and fast, “Suspect’s in the door. Act like you belong here or you’ll spook him. Got it?”

John rolled his eyes, glad the Inspector couldn’t see his averted face. An oncoming failure down to him. Nothing new in that. His parents liked to say he was useless and unloveable, and the collapse of his marriage rather cemented that fact. But failing George… nothing worse than that feeling. And Gently wouldn’t let it go easy.

“John, look at me.”

That was Inspector Gently’s Serious Voice, the one he used when he was about to flay John alive with some cutting witticisms, or stomp all over his soul in righteous anger. Right on cue.

John clenched his fists. Gently’s standards were impossible to meet, even though John tried so terribly hard. 

He’d always tried to be what people wanted. Young John spent his adolescence desperate for approval, pathetically grateful for a prefect’s badge, and definitely not secretly jealous of flamboyant Ricky Deeming, who could wear silk scarves and ride motorcycles and not care a lop what anybody thought of him. 

If only he were capable of not caring. Because no matter what he did, he’d never achieve Saint George’s perfection. 

John was deeply, irrevocably flawed.

From far away, he heard Gently start to repeat his words so John forced himself to look up. 

George’s ice blue eyes drilled into his soul. “Suspect’s coming towards us,” he growled. “Kiss me.”

Time stopped.

John could feel his jaw drop slightly open. A dying breath wheezed across his parted lips. His pulse echoed in his ears.

Gently’s gaze flicked behind John, watching their target weave his way across the main rooms towards the bar, judging how much time they had left. “People are uncomfortable with public shows of affection. They avoid looking. Human nature.” He chuckled and his eyes returned to John’s. “Or British nature. Best way to hide in plain sight.”

“I… You… you want me to….” John stared at him helplessly. This could not be happening.

“I’ll take it slow, lad,” the Inspector said, his gruff voice pitched low, and reached out with his free hand, his other still holding John in place.

George’s palm against his cheek, and John was leaning into the solid warmth without thinking, before he could stop himself, closing his eyes and focusing on the touch. 

It had been so long since he’d been touched. Even impersonal touches were few and far between. But this. Full contact. Lingering. Touch.

This almost felt like affection. 

Between his father’s ceaseless insults and violence, and his mother’s cruel humor, he hadn’t known much affection in his life.

This. This was nice. Even if this were all he could have, he wanted this. This was enough.

George released his grip on John’s bicep to wrap him in a one-armed embrace, pulling John in to stand between the Inspector’s spread knees, as he remained on his barstool. 

Eyes wide in surprise, John’s hands automatically went to George’s back, steadying himself from the unexpected hug, then jerked away like he’d touched a hot stove. 

George’s blue gaze was reproachful. Did he really want…? Oh, aye. They were undercover. 

His hands returned to Gently’s back, apprehensive, uncertain what to do, fingertips running over the wool of his coat.

Meanwhile, George shifted his hand from John’s cheek to cradle his jaw and upper neck, subtly guiding him to tilt his face. 

_Like he was a bird._

_Like they were going to kiss._

John stifled a moan. Was this really happening? They were so close he could smell tobacco smoke on Gently’s coat and the woody notes of his aftershave. 

George’s chapped lips, closed, brushed across his. A hint of stubble scraped. He was asking for…. John couldn’t respond, daren’t respond, though each point of contact between them blazed. His blood pounded in his ears, rushing south with a pitiful urgency. His flesh wanted this. This terrible, terrible thing. But it was _wrong._

If Gently knew the truth he would despise him. 

“I’m not…. I’m not one of them,” John whispered, breathless words ragged and forlorn, his eyelids shut tight. 

“No,” said George, the gruff word a mere puff of air against John’s lips. “You’re one of us.”

John might have initiated what came next. He might have, perhaps, _lunged forward_ , mashing his mouth against George’s, a collision of lips and noses, eager and terrified in equal measure. 

Their kiss was uncoordinated and sloppy and astonishing in its perfection. 

Lips and mouths that snarled and yelled at each other now battled for control, which made it all the sweeter when George yielded, submitting to the invasion of John’s tongue. His mouth tasted like Christmas, piney from the gin, reminding John of the last holiday he'd enjoyed, the one with that precious chocolatey egg so very long ago, only this time no one, not even his mother if she rose from the dead, could take this from him. He'd die for George. Almost had done once already.

Now he’d never felt so alive, every nerve tingling with excitement. He wanted to climb onto that barstool with George, seeking friction, seeking relief from the fierce ache building within him. He clutched at George’s back and felt a corresponding grip from George’s fingers digging into him.

The great man wanted him. _Him!_

When their mouths parted, breathless, George’s gaze shifted to something behind John. “He didn’t spot us. Well done.” His eyes returned to John’s and John beamed at the praise. 

“One… One of _us_ , guv?” So much hope squeezed into so few words.

Gently nodded. “Police.” His eyebrows raised, as if he were surprised John hadn’t understood before.

Right. They were both police. 

Ice formed in the pit of John’s stomach. Stiffly, he removed his arms from the Inspector, masking his fear and disappointment with the same stalwart determination that had gotten him through his life.

Rejection wasn’t new to him. As long as the Inspector was still willing to work with him, his world wouldn’t shatter. Although the ridicule would be hell.

Gently’s attention had returned to tracking the suspect. “He’s headed out the back. We need to follow,” Gently murmured, although he had yet to release John, who still stood between his parted knees.

John coughed quietly and wriggled a bit, reminding George to let go. He did. But he seemed to be smiling a little, and John was afraid he knew why.

John sighed. “Sir, you’re not going to tease us about this later, like?”

“No. I’m not,” George stated, very gravely, as if it were a vow. His eyes narrowed and he peered closely at John. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” John fiddled with straightening his jacket, wishing he could straighten his emotions with the same ease, then ran a hand through his hair. Even if no one ever touched him again, he’d snogged George Gently, Saint George, and how many people could say that?

Negotiating his way around George’s knee, he started to head after the suspect, but George spoke and the tone stopped him.

“Yes.” George’s rough voice sounded almost tender and … affectionate? John turned to look at him, and he deliberately caressed John’s cheek. “Yes, you are.” 

John blinked. As if in a daze, he watched George dismount the barstool and take the lead. 

“Come along, our John. We have a suspect to interview. Then we’ll talk.”

A lopsided grin spread across John’s face and he followed his governor.


End file.
